


I'm a ghost, trying not to losing you

by RedMushroom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gun play, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, PWP without Porn, Post Reichenbach, Translated by Mrs_bored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedMushroom/pseuds/RedMushroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns, sneaking into the room with soaked hair and his coat wet, it’s almost an instinctive move to point the gun at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a ghost, trying not to losing you

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone!    
> This fic may contain some grammar mistakes, since english it's not my mothertongue nor the one of Mrs Bored, the fanwriter that translated this fic 

_ I made my home here on the floor _   
_ And I'm losing all ambition _   
_ I'm a ghost _   
_ And I'm going all out _   
_ And I'm thinking you're just as bad _

_ (Paolo Nutini – Rewind) _

 

_ It’s a thirty five caliber Browning and it took away so many lives that John can’t count them anymore. _

In the past he used to keep in mind the faces of every person he pulled the trigger against; he remembered their face just before they were hit, when they finally realized that death was coming. He did it every night, with his eyes open, facing the dark ceiling. He counted with his fingers and he said out loud their names, with reverence and respect.

Now he stares at his gun and can’t manage to recollect anything. When was the last time he killed? Which was the last life he took away? He’s a little afraid. He turns the gun in his hands, he plays with the safety – moving the lever up and down, up and down – that makes a metallic noise ( _ click, clack, click, clack)  _ _ each time he set it on and off. _ __

_ The room is faintly illuminated. It’s always been like that: it doesn’t matter how many times John changed the bulb, how many times he pulled aside the curtains to allow the light to come in; the room remained filled with a relaxing semi-darkness and was decently illuminated only by mornings. It’s better this way, he thinks, but that day it’s raining heavily and the room seems simply gloomy and sullen. _

_ He had contemplated the idea of going downstairs, in the living room. Then he had stopped himself near the door, suddenly strengthless, running a hand on his face, and he had sighed. _

Sherlock isn’t here, that’s what he thought. And since he died (fakingly) and came back (not showing any kind of respect, turning up in his apartment because a Russian magnate was murdered and he needed his help), John finds himself less and less capable to bear his absence – without Sherlock, the apartment becomes weird, painful, miserable. It becomes all of the things Baker Street saved him from. Sometimes John thinks about leaving. He does that when he’s alone, when he stares at the supermarket shelf like it’s something dangerous and obscure, when the emptiness it’s so alluring that enchants his gaze.

Then Sherlock comes back and John feels only the need to kiss and fuck him senseless. 

John plays with the safety–  _ click clack click clack _ – and passes the gun from a hand to the other one. He has just polished it: his hands stink of oil and gunpowder.

When Sherlock returns, sneaking into the room with soaked hair and his coat wet, it’s almost an instinctive move to point the gun at him.

Sherlock watches him from the other side of the room. His curls are stuck on his forehead, in that absurd way that makes him look younger and he keeps his gaze on him, his lips slightly parted. <<John.>> He calls. He moved forward into the room. John follows his movements with the gun, his arm held up and points straight to him, the fingers brush against the trigger, his grip is secure. 

He takes few seconds to breathe, slowly and cautious. Sherlock doesn’t go back, he keeps his eyes on him. He calls, another time, and John doesn’t hear him. His voice buzzes in his ears as a creaking, metallic sound, like an electric interference. Sherlock is near, he’s in front of him.  
<<John.>> He pleaded, again. It’s inhuman the way that man’s voice remains so calm and quiet, even if he has a gun pointed to his neck. Maybe it’s because he trusts John, because he knows that the other man could never do something like shooting him; or maybe it’s just pretending, one of the many performances of the great detective. Maybe Sherlock’s afraid. He must be. Because John is a lot like that, at the moment. <<The safety>> he says <<is the safety on, John?>>.  
John doesn’t answer. He points the gun’s barrel in the middle of Sherlock’s forehead, pressing on the skin.  
A shot will be enough, just one; a finger’ slip and Sherlock would be dead (again).  
Something inside John stirred. He swallows. <<On your knees.>> He commands. He’s not sure anymore of what he’s doing. His tone is terse and sharp, toughen by the years spent doing military service, cracked – and he thanked god every day about that – because of his human nature. Sherlock doesn’t stop watching him, his pupils dilated, and he complies. He kneels. John keeps pointing the gun on the forehead. He moves it down on the cheek, pressing on the cheekbone, teasing his jaw.

_It would take so little_ , he thinks again, _so little,_ and the string that ties him to Sherlock is _too_ fragile, so much that John is terrified of crushing it with his own hands, under the pressure of his fingertips that try to keep it still and near.  
Would he remember Sherlock’s face, after pulling the trigger? Or would it just be confused in the middle of all the others, becoming just a shadow, a featureless ghost?  
He moves the barrel against the jawbone, making him lift his face up.  
The funny thing is that John knows everything about that weapon. He had kept it for so long that he knows it better than anything else: how many bullets it can shoot and which ones will surely hit the target; he’s aware of how much it weights and of its adaptability.  
He knows that it can takes away lives but its limited and flawed, just like him. Then Sherlock does something he doesn’t expect. He tilts his head, in a uncomfortable and distorted way, and lays his lips on the barrel – the one that stinks of oil and gunpowder and war. John swallows, again. He notices only in that moment that he’s barely breathing, looking desperately for air and, Jesus Christ, what is he doing? He tilts the gun and this time is Sherlock the one who follows it, rubbing his face against the metallic surface.  
<<Is the safety on, John?>> he asks, for the second time; and doesn’t obtain a reply. The truth is John doesn’t know. He can’t remember. He observes, fascinated, while Sherlock open his lips again and kisses the barrel (on the tip, where the bullets came out) and licks the metal.  
The arm starts shaking; it’s the pain, nothing more than a spasm, that takes over of John’s muscles because of the effort, of keeping the arm up and a gun in his hand. It’s a familiar pain and John can live with it. It’s the pang in his stomach the one he wasn’t prepared for, the warmth in his belly that becomes more and more meanwhile Sherlock’s tongue plays with the gun, gun that he moves in and out his mouth.  
Something in him growls and he keeps the weapon pressed against the detective. He contracts his fingers – a cramp – and Sherlock goes on, until he reaches his fingertips.  
God, he thinks. Sherlock has never stopped watching him. Sherlock reads him, it’s what he always do. This time John doesn’t know what Sherlock is seeing. Maybe anguish. Maybe the same arousal that John sees in him – after all, oh, it was Sherlock, and Sherlock was into this kind of things, he that possessed a different type of self-confidence, made of excesses and mysteries, of developments in continuous expansions.  
John has to repress a sob. Sherlock caress his fingers with the rough and dry tongue, slipping through the ones that are holding the weapon, rubbing between the flesh and the metallic surface. John finds it pleasant, but that’s not what makes him angry. It’s his gaze: he could focus again and again on Sherlock’s eyes, he could spend thousand words and be cheesy and vulgar in describing their color, what they can do to him just by staring, but he has never seen them so intrusive, full of the same feverish spark that lighted them up only during the most difficult cases. Triviality, he ponders, he’s falling into triviality. But it’s true.  
John points the gun at his neck and he struggles to understand who is keeping the other under control.  
Sherlock walks on his knees, until he’s closer, his face is serious, his hands brush against the trousers’ fabric. He feels his fingers squeezing the thigh, just squeezing, just above the knee.  
John can see Sherlock’s erection and feels his own pulsating.  
<<John>> he says, short of breath. He moves his fingers on the thigh, massaging the inner part; with the other hand he reaches the trousers’ crotch, rubs on the jeans’ cloth, forcing out of him a sudden moan.  
<<John>> he repeats, and he has still the gun who follows his every movement, that shakes each time one of the fingers slips. He murmurs his name again, with a trembling and deep voice; the voice of a plea. John doesn’t understand if Sherlock is terrified or aroused or even both. He doesn’t understand why he can’t let the weapon go – in his head the noise of the safety lever is still present, _(click, clack, click, clack)_ set on and off; maybe it’s because he went to forward to calling what’s happening a game. That’s what Sherlock understood before him (Sherlock always get things quickly than him).  
John grits his teeth and hears the zip’s noise and the trousers’ fall. The pressure on the weapon’ stocks intensifies. His arm complains about that, it sends stabs of pain that clouds his sight with little red dots.  
Sherlock is careful with his movements, in freeing his cock from his pants and holding it in his palm. He sense his breath on the skin, his fingers brushing the flesh. He closes his eyes, and what he sees is Sherlock opening the mouth on his weapon. A shudder starts from his head and painfully squeeze his stomach; he moans with very little dignity and Sherlock is barely touching him. Then, suddenly, at the same speed he was licking the barrel, Sherlock rubs his face on his penis, keeping his hips still, open his lips and kiss it.  
John’s legs tremble and relax. He sighs loudly, his mind starts becoming blurred, Sherlock is under him and Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes, giving him little moist tastes of how is it inside, and then he leaves the doctor to cling to the ghost of satisfaction, to his Browning, to fear.  
He breathes more quickly, he suspects he’s trembling but he’s not sure.  
Sherlock takes him all inside, without warning, he shifts from touching it with his lips to bite and licking it; to move it in and out his mouth. John groans. Now he’s sure he’s trembling, that he’s losing his grasp on the gun. The weapon is still in his hands, still pointed at Sherlock’s head, with the safety on and off. His moans soon filled the entire room; he wish he could say something, but he can’t think about anything but Sherlock, that in his physical body seems almost less real than in his mental images, that every time he fucks him he stares with those eyes that want and don’t want; he thinks about the Sherlock that now is biting his dick and he feels something warm filling his chest.  
When he comes he does it in Sherlock’s mouth. He falls on the ground and so does his gun, away from his hand.  
The safety was on.  
  
Sherlock stands up. His breath is short, his gaze desperate. He quickly grabs the weapon, taking it away from John, he holds it in his hands and this time it’s him that points it on him.  
The action happens so fast that can’t do anything else than watching him – he would find all this pleasantly funny, if it were a different situation - lying down on the floor, his chest goes up and down, his heart pumps in his hears like is about to burst.  
Jesus, John thinks, as if it was the worst curse in the world. He can see that there’s a bulge in Sherlock’s trousers , so when is the other man that instruct him to get up gesturing with the gun, John obeys without hesitations. John always do as Sherlock wants. And, in that precise moment, he only wish to make him lay down in bed and slowly undress him, seeing him shiver of cold and pleasure, wipe off his violent expression. Instead Sherlock presses the gun on him – hard, reddening the skin – hitting his cheek, his neck.  
John moves closer. He reaches out to grasp him, but Sherlock goes back. He throws the gun on the floor and, oh, John doesn’t believe Sherlock has ever made something as marvelous than that, than tossing himself to him and hug. John opens his eyes wide, he just ponders that no, no, it’s not something Sherlock would do; this can’t be Sherlock. But his heart calms while he’s hiding his face in him and inhales his smell. It doesn’t lasts much, less than a few seconds, then everything revert to cold and cruel. Sherlock jerks up, too fast to be described nor explained. And even if John tries to reach him – another time – Sherlock has already disappeared downstairs.  
John sits on the bed. He’s still naked, with this trousers and pants tangled at his ankles. He passes the gun from a hand to the other and he plays with the safety.  
(Click, clack, click, clack).  
John closes his eyes.  
Sooner or later he will drown in Sherlock and he only wish to love him less, a little so he wouldn’t find his death more appealing than losing him again.


End file.
